Johnson grinned. “Go on,” he urged, politely.
“There’s no ‘go on’ to it,” rejoined Jim, revealing equal politeness. “I’m only thinking of a piece I happen to know that runs about a man that’s wanted more or less in seven states and two territories. Running double, he’s hard to get.”
Johnson reached over coolly and struck him nastily across the mouth. Then as coolly he sat back, while Jim slowly rose to his feet. His eyes were blazing.
“Thanks,” he said, tensely. “I’ve heard a lot about your killings,” he went on, breathless with anger. “I guess maybe that’s the way–”
“Hush!” broke in Glover, excitedly, his eyes upon the ridge to the east.
The others turned. Moving slowly along the crest, disappearing, reappearing, disappearing again, was the figure of a man. They gazed a long moment, when the figure dropped from view again. They continued to gaze, silent, rigid, watchful, peering narrowly against the morning sunlight. Presently the figure reappeared, lower against the gray background, moving slowly as before, evidently crouching. Lower it came, quarter down the slope, half-way, then again disappeared. Johnson broke the tense silence.
“Sheepherder!” he snapped, and turned savage eyes back upon Jim.
But Glover leaped to his feet. “If that’s a sheepherder,” he cried, making for the horses at a run, “then I’m a sheep!”